Relapse
by flaurelcasfino
Summary: After their chat in the stairwell, Michaela takes pity on Frank and schemes to get Laurel to let him back in. Or, Frank and Laurel are set up on a blind date. Fluff and smut follow.


**Hi all! This was supposed to be a drabble to get me through this flaurel-less nightmare of a season, but I got carried away and now it is over 8,000 words of pure fanfic trope, fluff and much more smut than I anticipated. But, hey - if Pete and co won't give us the flaurel we need, we have to create it ourselves!**

 **I don't really know how this fits in with the show. It would take place after 5x03 when Frank and Michaela have their little stairwell chat, but then I'm not sure how it fits in with the rest of the season. However, I'm trying to fix the flaurel relationship here, not the whole show - one step at a time, guys.**

 **I haven't forgotten my real fic, I promise, but it has slightly taken the back-burner for now due to real life and all that nonsense. I hope to finish it around Christmas time, but, for now, please enjoy this absolutely self-indulgent fluff-fest! And if you have a second to leave a comment and let me know what you think, I cannot tell you how much I'd appreciate it!**

"What happened to being fabstinent?" Laurel stares at her friend, aghast at her suggestion.

Michaela groans and flops down on to the couch beside Laurel, grinning exaggeratedly at Christopher in his bouncy chair before returning her attention to his mother. "Well, if I'm going to get some from our 2L friend then it's only fair that-"

"Michaela…"

"I know, I know, you think it's a horrible idea to sleep with Gabriel but…"

"No buts! He's…" Laurel searches for an adjective to describe the newcomer that won't alert Michaela to her sinister suspicions but might still put her off letting him see her naked. "Sketchy."

Michaela raises one perfectly-plucked brow. "Seriously? If anyone is sketchy in that class, it's _us_. Sketchy isn't enough to keep me away from abs like that." She fans herself dramatically.

Knowing that she can't sway her friend, Laurel frowns, the dissatisfaction spreading across her face like a rash. "Just be careful, okay?"

"I can take care of myself, you know. And, anyway, you're focussing on the wrong thing here. You. Bar. Blind date?"

Laurel sighs, turning away from Michaela to look down at her son. She smiles at him – can't help herself – despite her souring mood. "I said I needed to concentrate on Christopher and school, and that's what I'm doing. I don't need a distraction."

"No, what you're doing is mooning over Frank. And you _do_ need a distraction from that."

"I am certainly not mooning. _I_ broke up with _him_." She pauses, scowls, ignoring the jab in her lower stomach when she adds: "And he moved on pretty fast."

"And that's exactly why it's time that you stopped moping about and moved on, too!"

Laurel feels, rather than sees, Michaela's pout.

"Come on," she urges. "You don't have to see the guy again. Just one drink, enjoy yourself, have fun. Have an evening away from milk puke and rattles and diapers. Go… be something other than Christopher's sad, lonely mom."

Even phrased like that, sitting in a dark bar with a stranger making awkward small talk still sounds like hell to Laurel. "No."

"I'll give you cash for the first drink _and_ lend you my red dress. The nice one."

"Why are you so keen for me to go anyway?"

Michaela hesitates at this. "I guess… I won't feel so guilty for breaking the pact if you're doing it, too. And…" Her eyes flicker downwards. "Laurel, I've got to move on. You know I nearly slept with Asher; I can't backslide like that, so I need something… some _one_ else to do instead."

"But Gabriel?" Laurel's frown deepens as she remembers his curious questions; prying about Wes, about her family.

"That's not up for debate right now, we're talking about you. Please? Be un-fabstinent with me?"

"I don't know, Michaela…"

"I'll tell Asher about your hot date."

Laurel eyes her suspiciously. "Why would he care?"

"He won't," Michaela says, matter-of-fact. "But you know he still talks to Frank."

Laurel turns back to look at Christopher, whose eyes are following the bright colours of the mobile above his head. It's hard to admit, even to herself, but she does feel a certain amount of satisfaction at the idea of Frank knowing that she's moved on from their twisted relationship. Knowing that he's not the only one who can go back to casual sex at the drop of a hat.

Then again, Laurel is also self-aware enough to know that part of the reason she's refusing Michaela's proposition is because, well, she doesn't _want_ to move on. Not yet. Not when that door still feels ever-so-slightly open to her. Telling Frank she doesn't want him is one thing. Moving on to someone else, however casual it may be, feels like she'd be hammering the final nail into the coffin of their relationship. And that's something Laurel's not sure she's ready for just yet. Not that she would ever, _ever_ admit that aloud.

As the pauses stretches out, Michaela snorts next to her and murmurs, like she can read Laurel's mind, "So totally mooning."

"Oh my God, Michaela!"

"If you're so over him, why won't you go?"

She stares at her friend, mouth open, momentarily caught on the defensive and unable to come up with a single reason, though logically her mind knows that there are many. "Fine," she finds herself blurting out. "I'll go. But I'll have one drink and, if I don't like the guy, I'm coming straight home. And consider the pact unbroken because-" She glances at Christopher and lowers her voice to a hiss "-I am definitely not going to sleep with some stranger after one date!"

Her rant does nothing for Michaela's triumphant smirk. Ignoring Laurel's simmering glare, Michaela turns her attention to the baby and puts on a high-pitched cooing lilt. "We're going to have so much fun tonight, Christopher! Yes we are! Your Aunt Michaela is going to have so much fun with you!"

"I hate you so much," Laurel mutters.

That's how she winds up standing in front of the floor-length mirror in the dank landing of their house, curves crammed into Michaela's figure-hugging red dress, feeling entirely too self-conscious to go downstairs, let alone out to a packed bar. "I feel overdressed," she comments.

"You're not," Michaela assures her.

"But…" Laurel runs her hands down her waist and over her hips; slightly wider and less forgiving in such a tight dress after Christopher. "This doesn't look right at all. You can see my mom belly." She twists sideways, analyses the way the dress cuts tightly across her stomach. "I'm not ready for this."

And it's true; she's not. She hadn't thought about dating after Christopher. First being unable to cut through the haze of guilt and grief for Wes and then… well, then came Frank. She felt secure with Frank, safe in the knowledge that he would worship her body, and every imperfection that came with it, no matter what. And, even though she hadn't been lying when she'd said to Michaela that she had no intention of sleeping with this stranger, eventually these new imperfections would be an issue. After all, stretch marks were hardly a widespread turn-on.

A hand on Laurel's shoulder breaks her out of her inner turmoil and she looks back up to the mirror to see Michaela smiling softly at her. "You look hot," she says. "You are a total hottie, I swear. But…" Michaela meets her eyes in the mirror. "You don't have to go if you really don't want to. We can watch a movie?"

Laurel's eyes sweep down the reflection of her own body and she tries to see herself through new eyes. Sure, her hips come out further than they used to and, yes, she knows she's wearing underwear that come up to her waist to force her slightly-flabby belly into submission – but Michaela's right. She looks hot. The sweetheart neckline of the dress draws the eye down to her now-ample cleavage and her carefully-crafted make-up almost hides the sleep-deprivation entirely. She smiles slightly. "No, it's fine. I'm all ready now; why waste it?"

Michaela grins widely. "That's the spirit."

Laurel says a long goodbye to Christopher, kisses his forehead with gusto and tells him to be good for Michaela, and then heads out to her waiting cab, which drives her to a bar in central Philly. It's a bar on the student strip so Laurel's familiar with it but has never been inside before. It's a Friday night so, unsurprisingly, the place is crowded; full of hot, sweaty bodies leaning over pool tables and chugging god-knows-what.

She heads straight to the bar for a drink before looking for her date, knowing that she'll need some liquid courage before facing her first potential date since… God, since Kan, really. She orders tequila, neat; she'll have to pump and dump tomorrow.

While waiting for the bartender to deliver her drink, she casts an eye around the bar for the man Michaela said would meet her there. "He's just your type," she'd gushed, a glint of mirth in her eye that Laurel couldn't quite decipher. "He's tall, dark and handsome. Good sense of humor. Pretty smart; he's just passed his LSAT. He'll be wearing a red tie."

Laurel sees a tall, dark guy standing by a pool table who looks like he could be a law student (bookish, rich, arrogant), but he's dressed casually; jeans and a polo, no tie. There's a guy wearing a red bow tie, but he's got blond hair, and he looks way too kooky to ever be Laurel's type.

When her drink appears, and she still hasn't seen anyone that fits the bill, she has to assume that he's not yet arrived. So she takes her drink to a table hidden in the shadows, but within view of the door, so that she can watch out for her companion. After a few sips, she feels her shoulders relax slightly and her stomach begin to unclench. The tipsy buzz of the room stops being mildly annoying and starts to become somewhat comforting, as if she's re-joined an old world, one that she wasn't sure she could still access now that she used nipple cream and wore maternity jeans, even post-partum.

Just when she's starting to feel pleasantly calm, she spots him.

A familiar figure at the bar. Tall, dark and devastatingly handsome, hi-ball of whisky in hand. He's dolled up, too, in a waistcoat that sparks old memories back to life and, tucked neatly inside the silky material, sits a vibrant red tie.

Her blood runs cold.

Laurel downs the rest of her drink and makes a quick exit, not daring to check over her shoulder to see if she was unseen; she can't risk the eye contact. Once outside in the cool night air, she digs her cell out of her bag. She dials Michaela's number, but it goes to voicemail. "You are so dead," Laurel says after the beep, not bothering to dial again, knowing that she's being ignored.

She opens up the web browser, searches for a cab number to come and be her white horse, saving her from this awkward situation. But a familiar, deep voice stops her from hitting call. "Hey." His voice is accusing. "What are you doin' here? You followin' me now?"

Laurel turns around to shoot him a withering glare. "Oh please. It's bad enough that you had to stoop to Michaela's level instead of just telling me you wanted to talk."

Frank frowns at her. "What are you talkin' about?"

She rolls her eyes. "You know what I'm talking about. I'm not playing this game, Frank. I thought we were being mature about this? For Christopher?"

He stares at her, grey-blue eyes as enticing as they always have been. "You think I _wanted_ to meet you here?"

"I know you talked to Michaela outside Asher's apartment. So… what? Did the two of you have some sort of scheme so that she could trick me into… what exactly? What do you want, Frank?"

His eyebrows drop into a glare, eyes cloud over with frustration. "Nothin'. I didn't come here for you, don't flatter yourself."

Laurel hesitates, confused. "Then… why are you here?"

"Asher said that a guy wanted to see me about some job…" They stare at each other for a moment, horns blaring in the distance as the sinking feeling of realisation descends upon them.

"What's with the red tie?"

"Asher gave it to me. Tol' me to look 'dope' or some bullshit."

Laurel sighs through gritted teeth. "I hate them. Both of them."

There's a brief pause and then Frank asks, "Who's watching the little guy?"

"The Wicked Witch of the West."

Frank's lips quirk up slightly. "So, Michaela?"

"Mmm-hmm." Laurel pinches the bridge of her nose and purses her lips. "Right. I'm gonna call a cab, do you want me to get you one too?" She opens up the browser on her phone again but, when she gets no answer, glances over at Frank. He's watching her, an undecipherable expression on his face. "Frank?"

"Uh… nah. I'm here now. Better to drink at a bar than alone in Bonnie's guest room," he says. The way he tries a smile afterwards suggests that it was a half-heated attempt at a joke, but the words fall flat in the chilled night air, and he comes off sounding a little pathetic instead.

"Right, okay," Laurel replies quietly. "See you round, I guess."

"Yeah. See you round," Frank echoes, and he turns and heads back towards the bar.

She looks back at her cell and her thumb hovers over the call button. She hesitates.

A voice filters to her from the doorway. "You… uh… you wanna join me before you go?"

She looks over to see that Frank has turned back and is watching her with those familiar puppy-dog eyes. He holds up a handful of cash. "Drinks on Doucheface?"

Laurel laughs once and reaches into her clutch bag, withdrawing the bills that Michaela had given her. "Doubles on Michaela?"

Frank shakes his head. "Those two are more alike than they wanna admit." He raises his eyebrows at her. "So? You comin'? Not often you get a night out without gettin' spit up on."

She appraises him with pursed lips and then, slowly, nods. "Fine. One drink."

They find two empty stools at the far corner of the bar, and clumsily head for the same seat, mumbling apologies and hesitating too long before each picking a stool and sitting. Frank orders a whisky, neat, and Laurel opts for a large margarita. It's awkward, the whole situation. After all, when would drinks with an ex be anything else? But they make small talk for a bit, about Christopher mostly; how he still loves the giraffe, still won't sleep more than three hours at a time and still seems wary of Connor.

"Rightly so," Frank comments, sounding almost proud. "He doesn't wanna get too close, or he'll get stuck in all that hair gel."

Laurel grins, despite herself.

"How's the new clinic?"

"Fine," she answers with a shrug. "It's awkward, working at Caplan and Gold, but it's fine."

"Mus' be strange."

"What?"

"Bein' back there. After… everythin'."

Laurel looks over to find Frank regarding her with warm eyes and an expression that's entirely too understanding. She looks back down at her drink. "A little," she admits. "But you've got to put it behind you, you know."

"I know." There's gravity in his tone and Laurel knows he's thinking of everything that he's had to put behind himself, too. After a moment, he flags down the bartender, orders another whisky. He glances Laurel's way and raises an eyebrow at her, offering.

Unexpectedly, she finds herself nodding her assent and ordering a second margarita.

They drink together in silence for a timeless moment, the cheers of drunken frat boys filling the air around them. When she's sure he's not watching her, Laurel sneaks a glance over at Frank. He's staring straight ahead, watching the bartender fulfil endless orders, and his hand clasps his drink tightly. Nervously. She lets herself stare, just for a moment, taking in the face she knew so well: the sharp angles of his chin, the deep set of his frown, the new wrinkles around his perceptive eyes.

Suddenly, his gaze returns to her and he catches her mid-stare.

She looks away, fingers curling around the stem of her glass.

Frank clears his throat. A beat passes and then he asks, "You thought you were comin' out 'ere to meet some guy, then?"

Laurel tilts her head slightly, doesn't fully look up to meet his gaze. "I guess so. Blind date; Michaela wouldn't really take no for an answer."

"What did she say?"

She smiles slightly, feels her cheeks warm. There's no way she's going to admit to Frank that the only reason she agreed to come was so that Michaela would stop nagging her about getting over him. Oh, that girl is so getting it in the neck as soon as she gets home this evening. "She said I needed a night out to get away from being Christopher's sad, lonely mom."

Frank laughs. "An' was she right?"

"Well… this isn't as bad as I was expecting it to be." Laurel chances a shy glance upwards, but then hurries to gesture to her glass, lest he think she's talking about him. "It's nice to have a drink and relax a little."

He just smiles at her a little, eyes sparkling just like they used to.

She looks down again, studies the bar top. "And you came for a business deal?"

"Yeah. Should'a seen that one comin'."

"What kind of business deal?"

"Asher wouldn't tell me much, said it would be 'worth my while' and I'd really be helpin' a buddy out." He laughs once, deep in his throat. "I figured it was somethin'…"

"Illegal?" Laurel suggests, taking a drink to hide her knowing smirk.

He meets her eye, quirks one eyebrow and grins devilishly. "Perhaps."

"And now here you are, drinking with me instead. How disappointing." She watches him carefully as she speaks, analysing his every move for a clue as to how he really feels about being set up with her.

God knows he should be annoyed, frustrated. She'd strung him along for so long and then, when he finally asked for something in return, she'd cut him loose. He should hate her, should be yelling at her right now, accusing and angry and agonised by her existence. Instead, he's been laughing with her, smiling at her; that smooth, easy smile that he so rarely pulls out, a weapon in his arsenal that not many are lucky enough to see.

Now, though, he gives nothing away, stares right back at her, into her eyes and deep down to her soul. Eventually he nods slightly. "That's one word for it." He takes another drink, eyes drift over her head as he engrosses himself in a TV showing some sports game behind her. But his fist is too tense on his knee, sinews and muscles rigid and rippling under taut skin, and jaw tight, presumably holding back bullet-like words, crafted to pierce her until she's all bled out.

Her body thrums with desperation. She's desperate to apologise for how badly she's treated him. She's desperate to put her palm over that fist and find a way to make things okay. She's desperate – intensely so – to put her lips to his and show him how much, and how deeply, she still cares.

Instead, she clears her throat, forces a casual tone as she enquires: "How's… uh… how's Bonnie?"

"Good," Frank says, pulling his focus back to her and allowing her to direct the conversation now. "She's really good. Got a new boyfriend. She seems…" He hesitates, smiles a little before saying: "Happy, I guess. She seems happy."

"Good. I'm glad." She takes another sip of her drink, and it emboldens her enough to ask the question that's been bugging her for a while now. "And you? Are you… um… are you still seeing that girl?" She cringes inwardly as the words come out. Even to the most untrained ear, it sounds like blatant fishing.

Frank's responding frown only makes her cringe more deeply. "Uh… no," he replies eventually. "Strictly a one-time thing."

"Oh." She can't think of anything else to say, so she finishes her drink instead. When she looks back up at Frank, she finds him watching her with down-turned lips, frustrated eyes.

"What are you doin', Laurel?"

"What do you mean?"

"Askin' me that. You ended this. Not me." He shakes his head, jaw tight and hard again. "You can't ask me this and pull that… self-pityin' crap. I gave you everythin'. This was your choice."

She stares at him for a brief moment, feels her heart pang painfully in her chest, throb like an open wound. "I know," she says, and she does. She doesn't need a reminder that it's her fault she loses everything good in her life.

Frank finishes the last of his, too. He pushes the glass away and turns to face her. "You gonna call that cab then?" It's clear that the forcibly light smiles and the carefully-crafted small talk are over.

"Sure. Are you heading back to Bonnie's?"

"Yeah. Jus' order one. I'll ride with you. It's on the way."

She hesitates, uncertain if they should be in a confined place together when clearly they're each still nursing a gaping emotional wound. "You sure?"

"Absolutely. It's still on Asher, anyway." Frank holds up more dollar bills, the positivity in his words impossible to find on his dour expression.

Laurel forces a small smile nonetheless. "He's more generous than Michaela."

"What can I say? I drive a hard bargain." Frank excuses himself to go to the bathroom and says he'll meet her outside, so Laurel calls the cab company and gives their location and then heads out, waits in the entrance so she can see when the cab pulls up without having to stand in the crossfire of the biting October wind. She checks her cell phone, sees that Michaela still hasn't returned her call. Of course.

"They comin'?" Frank asks of the cab company when he joins her. He pushes a hand through his beard and, suddenly, he looks tired. His face has relaxed; the frown that had overtaken his entire being has given way to total indifference, and she can see the underneath that he's been hiding all evening.

"On their way," she replies, offering a small smile, but then going silent, recognising that no amount of meaningful gestures can repair this cavern between them anytime soon.

"Well…" he says after a small pause. "Thanks for stayin' I guess."

"No problem." Laurel hesitates and then sighs. "I'm sorry they roped you into this. I'll be having words with Michaela for sure."

Frank frowns at her. "Why are you sorry? You didn't know."

"I… It's not fair on you to drag this all back up. You…" She takes a deep breath. "You deserve to move on from this mess." She looks out through the window, stares unseeingly down the street. "From me. I'm just… I'm sorry I never treated you better."

There's a long pause and Laurel can't bear to look at him, to see his reaction to this long-overdue apology. Eventually, he murmurs, "You don't have to be sorry. I knew what I was gettin' myself in for."

She finally shoots him a glance, meets his gaze. He's watching her with that soft expression he always reserved just for her, that silent comfort that Laurel hadn't realized she missed so much. She smiles slightly, and then she looks back outside.

"An' Laurel?"

She looks back.

He almost looks shy, one hand coming up to stroke through his beard again, as he shrugs, carefully careless – but unable to look her fully in the eye. "For what it's worth, you look beautiful. Your next real date will be a lucky guy."

Floored by his candour, Laurel doesn't know how to respond. She glances away again and – saved by the bell – is just in time to see the cab pull up. "The cab's here," she says dumbly.

The drive to Bonnie's house is silent, the air fizzing with words left unspoken.

Laurel's mind flies, her memory pulling back snippets of Frank and her: the kiss after he passed his LSAT; his anguished expression when she'd awoken in hospital to find her baby torn from inside of her; him prostrated before her, velvet box in hand. Through thick and thin. His words echo in her mind: "This is how right I know we are."

In what feels like both forever and no time at all, the driver pulls up to the curb and waits outside the dark, apparently-empty house.

Frank looks over at her. "Don't be too hard on Michaela," he says quietly. "I had a good time." He reaches into his pocket again and pulls out the remaining cash, hands it forward to the driver. "Here; this should cover the next leg, too." He returns his attention to Laurel. "Tell Little C I said hi." And then he opens his door, steps out into the darkness and heads up the path.

"Where to next?" the driver asks, observing her in his rear-view mirror.

Laurel stares out of her window, watching Frank disappear into the night.

"Miss?"

And she doesn't know what makes her do it – perhaps it's the booze after spending so long tea-total – but she shakes her head. "Nowhere. Keep the change." And she grabs the handle and pushes the door open, stumbling hurriedly up the path behind Frank. "Frank!" she calls, catching up to him as he's turning the key in the lock. He looks up, catches sight of her and pauses, confused.

"What's wrong?" he asks, concerned.

"Nothing," she breathes, stepping up close to him and angling her face up to his, rising onto the tips of her toes so that she can press her lips to his and get the fix she's been denied now for so long. He's frozen and unresponsive for a moment that feels like a lifetime, and blood roars in Laurel's ears, sends fear coursing through every inch of her. Then, finally, gloriously, he's kissing her back. The key falls to the ground with a chink as his arms come around her, roam across her back, one rooting in her hair and the other snaking around her waist, holding her tightly.

They've kissed so many times that Laurel's lost count, but still this feels different somehow. It's hungry and passionate and careful and soft and hard and tender and desperate and rough and longing all at once. It's somehow both loving and hateful; too soon and not nearly soon enough. It's both perfectly, deliciously _right_ – and it's heart-wrenchingly, utterly wrong.

He's a drug, designed specifically for her, and she's been clean for so long, but one taste is all it takes to be long gone. She's backsliding; relapsed and lured back in.

She breaks away, holds his face between her hands, palm to cheek. "I'm sorry," she whispers. "I'm so sorry."

His eyes flicker open, so close to hers that she can see his individual eyelashes separate. His pupils dart rapidly from side to side as he assesses her expression. "For what?"

"I didn't want this for us. I didn't mean to make it this way. I just… I needed some space… to think and…" She trails off.

Frank leans back, peels away from her. "And what?"

She steels herself, takes a deep breath so that she can summon the strength to admit something out loud that she hasn't even allowed herself to think yet. "I don't want anyone else. I don't want to go on blind dates and meet some guy who works in corporate law. I don't want someone else watching Christopher grow up, picking him up from school and being there when he walks for the first time. I just… I want you, Frank." She catches her breath, turns away from him and paces slightly, her body buzzing from head to toe. "But… I'm not ready to get married, not yet, but maybe I never will be. And I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." Her voice is thin, throat thick, eyes stinging. "I need to let you go, but I hate it. I hate hating you, I can't stand it. I can't be what you want, but…"

"You are," he cuts her off. His hand comes around her arm, holds her in place and he looks her right in the eye, stares at her with a depthless emotion. "Laurel, you are exactly what I want. An' I'll wait. I'll always wait for you."

She exhales slowly. "You will?"

"Always," he repeats, and his eyes promise her things she already knows as he leans in and recaptures her lips with a softness he's always had in him but so rarely reveals. His hands come to her face, and the pads of his thumbs wipe away tears Laurel hadn't realised were leaking out, betraying the true depth of her emotions. Her own hands find his hips, roam around to sit at the small of his back, knuckles brushing against the smooth satin of his waistcoat. Frank deepens the kiss, his tongue mingling with hers and hungrily drinking her in.

The mood changes.

What was soft and careful – a wordless demonstration of emotions left unspoken – slowly morphs into a crackle of something brighter and more desperate and altogether more primeval. Her soft gasps are breaths in the night, wisps of hunger lost to the air. Frank tugs her in closer, pressing her body to his as if he could fuse them together, and he grunts quietly into her mouth, the sound taking her back to mornings between soiled sheets. It's a sound that tells her how much he wants her.

"Is Bonnie home?" she asks breathlessly.

"Nah, at her boyfriend's," he replies, taking advantage of the moment to tuck her hair behind her ear and kiss gently below her ear lobe. His low voice is liquid honey in her ear, sweet and thick. "Why? Are you lookin' for an invitation inside?"

Her legs are weak, but she stands firm, plays along. "If I did what I'm thinking of doing to you out here on this porch, we might both get arrested. And we both know public indecency isn't what we're destined to go down for."

He groans, deep and rough against her neck, and then he kneels before her. Laurel can't catch her racing thoughts long enough to work out what he's doing, but shortly he rises again, fallen key in hand and he's fumbling at the door like his life depends on it.

As soon as the door creaks open, Frank's reaching back, grabbing her wrist and tugging her inside, and she's giggling like a teenager, higher than a kite. He kicks the front door closed and pushes her up against it, drawing down the zipper to her coat and revealing the vibrant dress underneath, pushing the coat off of her shoulders so it falls to the floor. He pauses for a second to admire her, drinking her in with ravenous eyes. "So fuckin' beautiful," he murmurs, before hungrily coming back to her, lips finding lips. His right hand dives down to find her left knee and he lifts her, encouraging her to wrap her legs around his waist, and she's more than happy to comply.

Laurel's hands wrestle in between them, tug at the teasing red tie and then at the buttons of the waistcoat and he's more than happy to shrug it off as she goes for his shirt, nimble fingers shaking as she progresses steadily downwards, each unfastened button falling away to expose his sculpted chest. Eventually, she manages to undo the final button and her chilled fingers refamiliarize themselves with the firm planes of his stomach, causing him to hiss slightly at her touch. She traces down to the trail of soft hair at his navel, shifting herself on his crotch, grinding slightly, searching for friction where she burns.

"Fuck, Laurel," Frank mutters, pushing her hard against the door, his weight braced heavily against her, strained pants in her ear.

"Upstairs," is all she can say in response.

He nods against her and turns, carrying her up the stairs as effortlessly as if she were a child. He pushes his way backwards through the door of the spare room that had not-so-long-ago been her safe haven as well as his. It's changed: the bed is in the opposite corner, pushed against the wall now that no one needs to get out the other side. But she doesn't dwell on what's different, only on what's the same. And the most important thing that hasn't changed since the last time Frank laid over her on this bed is the unspeakable, insurmountable depth of her feelings for him. He's more than she can verbalise, more important than she can comprehend, and more – so much more – than she's ever deserved.

Yet, here he is, laying her down on his sheets like a baby in a crib so caring and overwhelming is his touch. He hovers above her and kisses her throat, licking and sucking in all the right places. She writhes beneath him, throbbing, feeling herself getting wetter in anticipation of what's to come.

Frank's hand finds her thigh and trails up it, edging ever closer to the place she wants him most of all – but he stops when his fingers find and tug on her panties, and he draws away from kissing her neck, frowning slightly.

"Frank," she whines, pouting at him childishly. "Why-?"

His eyes dart to hers and he suddenly looks embarrassed. "I… uh… I can't get your panties off."

She sits up on her elbows and frowns at him, confused, (because since when has Frank Delfino been inept in the bedroom?) and then she remembers, and her heart stops, and she wants to curl up and disappear. "Oh God."

"What?"

"Oh… no…" Laurel buries her face in her hands, feeling her cheeks burn.

Concern is leaking into Frank's voice now. "What? What's wrong?"

She doesn't look up when she replies. "I wasn't going to sleep with some guy I'd just met so…" She can't force the words out.

"So… what?"

She mumbles the words into her hands.

"What?"

Finally, she drops her arms and flops backwards onto the bed, crying her explanation to the ceiling. "I'm wearing Spanx!" she declares, officially killing the mood. When Frank doesn't respond, she dares a look over at him, kneeling next to her atop of the comforter. He's obviously amused, lips pinched together to hold back the laugh she knows is bubbling inside of him, and that makes her feel so much worse. She groans and rolls away from him, onto her side. "Oh God…"

"No!" Frank says, grabbing her hip and rolling her back towards him. "Don't you dare run away from this." The humor in his voice is evident when he adds: "I'm getting you naked even if I need a BA in escapology to do it."

Laurel huffs at that. "It's not _that_ hard." She sits up and turns her back to Frank. "Get the zipper."

His deft fingers grasp at the flimsy zip of the red dress and tug it down gently, the tips of his fingers lingering at her burning skin as they go. Despite the awkwardness that has befallen them, it's a surprisingly arousing gesture.

"Oh," Frank says, when the zipper reaches the middle of her back and, instead of skin, he's greeted with the stretchy fabric of her abundant underwear.

"'Oh' is right," Laurel grumbles, shuffling to the edge of the bed and standing up. With difficulty, she tugs the dress up and over her head, dropping it to a puddle of blood-red satin on the carpet. She thanks the bartender in her head for the generous measure of liquor that has given her the courage to stand before the man she loves in nude-coloured, stretchy nylon.

Frank watches her from the bed, the laughter playing in his eyes a direct contrast to the stunning form of his chest peeking out through his open shirt. He raises his eyebrows at her and winks salaciously, not even needing to utter a sound to mock her.

She glares and pulls at the clingy material hugging her waist. "You're going to have to look away," she says.

"No chance." Frank draws himself to the edge of the bed and reaches up, tucking a forefinger in each side of the underwear and tugging it down over her stomach. His head is eye-level with her breasts and he watches as her body spills out – there's really no other word for it – as he wrestles the embarrassing contraption down. It's a strangely intimate moment, and the liquid courage Laurel had been feeling evaporates, leaving her feeling self-conscious and awkward, as – piece by piece – Frank reveals the scarred landscape that is her new body. He's seen it before, of course, but never quite as full-frontal as this. He goes oddly quiet, the laughter dulling in his gaze, and the rising shake of his shoulders petering out. Eventually, he pushes the fabric over her hips and her ass and it loosens slightly as it passes down her thighs until, finally, Laurel's free and she can step out of it, left only in the panties she's wearing underneath (humiliatingly practical; black boy-shorts with a pink lace edge) and the plain black maternity bra she's been wearing for three days straight. At least they kind of match, she supposes.

She wonders how she must look under his gaze, how she's changed. Where once her body was tight, trim and sexy, it now bears battle scars and irreversible damage. Where once she stood tall, confident and dominating, she now shrinks back, shies away from his attention. Where once she was a wild, blossoming young woman, she's now a scared, vulnerable coward. Christopher's sad, lonely mom.

Frank finally looks up at her face, but his expression drops when he notices the tears in her eyes.

"It's okay," she whispers. "I can go."

Wordlessly, Frank grasps her waist and pulls her down slowly, positioning her next to him on the bed. He pushes her gently, coaxing her to lay back on the bed. "You ain't going nowhere," he murmurs. "Not when you have no idea how much I want you."

Laurel scoffs slightly, but he silences her by reaching around her and unclasping her bra with practised poise. He strips it from her and leans over her, bending so that he can kiss the swells of her breasts, his beard soft and stroking against her sensitive skin. "God, Laurel, you're so goddamn gorgeous," he mutters against her. And, the strange thing is, she believes him. The way he says it leaves no room for argument, no place for disagreement. He states it as an indisputable fact, and he backs up his opinion with evidence of his desire, guiding her hand to his slacks and silently begging her to give him some relief.

She unbuttons his pants and he discards them quickly, pulling away to shuck off his shirt, too. They lie on their sides, facing each other, and Laurel takes his cock in hand, gripping firmly as she begins to stroke. He groans beside her, his own hand finding her thigh, the crotch of her boy-shorts and he rubs her through them in exactly the right place. She kisses him as she squirms against his touch, growing damp again.

"Ugh," he intones deeply as she leaks against his palm, "you're so wet." He pushes the panties aside so that he can stroke her hot, velvet folds, sink his digits inside of her, feeling the wetness leak over him.

Laurel moans against his mouth, bucking her hips into his hand, the delicious stretching sensation making her clench and throb around him as the blood rushes to her cunt, gathers there and amplifies every sensation, every tingle.

He fucks his fingers into her keenly, unperturbed by the clench of her thighs around his wrist.

"Frank," she groans his name along with a few unintelligible sounds. "So good… fuck… ah…"

He curls his fingers inside of her, strokes the inside of her pussy wall, finding that rough spot and going hell for leather. Her muscles seize around him and she whimpers next to him, lips wide and expression blissful. She's a burning, keening cauldron of a girl, boiling over and uncontrollable.

"Oh God, oh God, oh God," she chants, completely at the mercy of Frank's ministrations. His thumb arches round to rub her clit in time with his fingers urgent thrusts and he doesn't let up, not for one agonisingly delicious moment. "Oh fuck," she cries, and she can see red behind her eyelids, the pleasure so intense that it's almost painful. She's tightening inside like a spring and she can feel the orgasm coming like a wave to the beach. "Frank," she warns, but she can't quite find the words. "I… I'm… oh God… I'm gonna…"

Suddenly, the feeling from her legs disappears and the moment suspends itself. It's more than a wave approaching; like a tsunami, everything drains away before the incoming swell. And then: impact.

Laurel screams out as her orgasm hits forcefully, her cunt spasming and gripping Frank's fingers tightly as something inside of her erupts and sprays down his hand, his wrist, his sheets. She leaks profusely, a dam breached and irreparable, and her legs quiver at the relentless pleasure.

"Shit," Frank cusses beside her, continuing to stroke firmly, push her through it and draw it out.

"Ohohoh," she moans, body automatically angling for more, though the pulses are weakening and the gush of liquid is slowing. Gradually, each piece of her grows heavy and relaxed as the final tremors of her climax sweep through her and she stills on the bed.

"Fuck that was hot," Frank mutters after a moment. He carefully withdraws his hand from between her legs and then he holds her gaze as he brings his hand to his mouth and sucks his fingers between his lips, making a show of licking every last drop of her up.

Her hand has stilled on his cock, but Laurel feels it twitch in her palm, desperate with the need to be inside of her. She releases him and reaches between her own legs, cringing slightly at the hyper-sensitivity, coating her hand in her own juices before grasping his length in her slick palm again. He almost growls at her touch, eyes fierce with lust. It's not even really been that long since they were together, but still Laurel's surprised by the sheer size of him as she wraps her fingers around him and strokes rhythmically up and down.

After a moment where the room is filled with the sound of their own rapid breathing and the slick, wet sound of skin passing over skin, Frank bucks his hips into her hand and then shakes his head. "More," he mutters, and then he's pushing himself back, leaning on his forearms so that he can hover over her. His hand is between her folds again, dipping inside of her, testing her. His eyes meet hers and question her silently.

"Please," she whispers, nodding her assent.

He lines himself up, the tip of his cock teasing and hinting but not enough.

"Frank," she whimpers, needy and whiny and right where he wants her.

"You're mine," he says, withholding what he knows she wants so desperately. He's smirking, has morphed back into that arrogant, cock-sure, flirtatious asshole she knew once, so long ago.

"Mmm hmm," she hums, arching her back and reaching for him.

But he's good, well-practised, and he arches away, removing the contact and Laurel groans, deep and guttural. He grabs her wrists and holds them above her head, managing to pin her down with one hand.

"Yes. I'm yours," she agrees, and she's never been so honest. There is nowhere else she'd rather be than at Frank's mercy.

With that, he pushes himself inside of her, filling her to the hilt and they both groan simultaneously, her fingers flexing, toes curling at the sensation. She can feel him – all of him – blissfully bare inside of her, and every nerve ending is especially receptive to him tonight.

Still holding her wrists in one of his hands, Frank angles himself above her so that he can look down at her as he drives himself in, withdrawing until he's almost entirely out, and then slamming back in, bottoming out and groaning deeply as her burning pussy clenches tightly around him. Despite the obvious pleasure, he manages to grin lazily down at her as he begins to set a pace. It's steady, easy, scratches an itch – but it's not what she's here for, and he knows it.

"Frank," Laurel says, pushing against his restraining hold, and she's embarrassed by how whiny she sounds, reedy and desperate.

"What's wrong, princess?" he asks, holding her firmly in place. The nickname conjures memories of past scenes, obscene and twisted, and her whole body throbs with arousal.

"Oh God," she cries, though she knows she absolutely shouldn't be bringing the Lord's name into this. Neither of them could be described as even remotely religious but for this – and all of their other sins – they are certainly going to hell. "Harder, please… just… fuck me."

Frank's eyes meet hers and they almost seem to spark before her, pupils dilating dangerously and his teeth gritting as he pushes himself while desperately trying to maintain some control.

"I can take it," she promises, words falling past her lips without permission. "I can take it all, just fuck me already. Fuck me so hard I can't walk straight tomorrow."

He slams into her – hard. One forceful thrust and then he stills deep inside of her and watches her face arch upwards, pulse throb through her neck. He leans downwards, his voice drops to a low whisper: "Where are your manners?"

She arches against him. He's so deep inside of her but it's not enough, she needs more. "Please," she responds, composure splintering like rotting wood. "Oh please, fuck me, I need it so bad. I need you, Frank." She pauses, hips stuttering up, searching for what she wants. "Please," she whispers again.

Finally, thankfully, Frank groans and picks up the pace, pounding into her as she meets his rhythm and pushes them together. His grip on her wrists loosens and then eventually he gives up altogether, placing his palms either side of her shoulders so that he can best angle himself to continue his punishing rhythm. Laurel glances downwards and watches as his cock disappears inside of her and then emerges, coated in her shining juices.

Her breath is shaky, panting, and she reaches downwards, fingers finding her clit and rubbing fiercely, desperately. The pleasure is almost too much, rushing over her and pulling her downwards and she can feel her own wetness as she fingers herself, the tips of her fingers brushing against the slick, firm shaft of his cock as he thrusts urgently inside of her, his pace faltering as he gets closer to the edge himself.

"No," he growls, after a moment, and Laurel is confused by what he means until his hand reaches between them and paws her hand away. "I'm gonna make you fuckin' come, you hear me?" His gaze holds hers. "No one else."

Her cunt spasms delicately around him. "Do it," she urges through her teeth, so painfully close and desperately needing the relief. "Make me come."

Frank's head falls between them as his hips piston roughly into her, driving into her with a force that's so hard, she's almost surprised that the bed hasn't gone through the wall. He grunts above her, and the timing of his thrusts become unpredictable as he begins to chase his own pleasure, as well as hers. "Fuck, Laurel," he groans. "This is so fuckin' hot. I'm so close."

"Don't," she orders, panting, taking back control. "You have to… make me… come first."

He leans on his left elbow and his right hand returns to that sweet spot, finds her clit with ease and strokes it tenderly, pressing and flicking and caressing until she can't take it anymore.

"Frank," she moans, "that's it. I… I… Oh…" Her orgasm takes her by force, her whole lower body clenching around him, thighs clinging, cunt gripping him in a fiery embrace, stomach tightening as wave after wave of fierce bliss pulses through her.

Frank groans deeply above her and his hips surge forward once, twice more and then he drives fully inside of her and murmurs a string of expletives between heavy grunts as he empties inside of her in thick ropes of come.

They don't move for a timeless moment, entangled in each other, their scent heavy and obscene in the air around them. Eventually, Frank gently withdraws and settles beside her on the mattress and they lie silently – side-by-side – contemplating the unexpected turn of events.

Words come to Laurel's lips – excuses about large margaritas, and baby brain, and why she should leave right away – but she holds them back because they're simply not true. She can't speak her truth aloud, though she tries to think it into existence.

 _I love you. I always have. I always will._

Eventually, Frank breaks the silence. "You're right," is all he says.

"About what?" Laurel manages to breathe out in response.

"We'd o' definitely got arrested if we did that on the front porch."

And Laurel can't help herself – she giggles. She glances over at him, and meets his eye, and they both smile. A small, careful smile. But it's real. It's the truth. And it's out there. And then, in her own effort to bridge the gap, Laurel rolls up onto one elbow. "You know, if you want me to stick around, we could not get arrested at least two more times before sunrise."

Frank's brow lowers and his lips twitch in that way that Laurel knows means he's thinking about something downright filthy – but then he frowns properly, the real world tugging him back in. "What about Chris?"

Laurel hums for a moment, and then shrugs. "Michaela knew what she was doing. Let her have the sleepless night for once."

"You sure?"

Laurel pauses, thinks for a moment about the smug smile she's going to have to put up with tomorrow from the Prom Queen herself, and Asher's wildly waggling eyebrows, and Connor's dramatic eye-rolls. She thinks of Christopher's gleeful smile and gurgling laugh whenever Frank's around, and she knows that she'd put up with the first three a thousand times over just to see the latter once. And between that, and her own silent confessions, Laurel knows that she and Frank aren't over yet.

And he's watching her with a patient and understanding expression; waiting for her, just like he'd said he would.

The door is wide open, and Laurel knows she'd be a fool not to walk straight through it. She nods, a shy smile gracing her lips. "Yes," she says, empowered by her own certainty, "I'm positive."


End file.
